The morning did not creep in quietly. It came with the cold metallic sound of the penthouse's automatic blinds rolling back their night-pelt, swamping the room in a bright, pitiless light. The world outside, a full twenty-seven stories away, was a quiet tapestry of moving vehicles and tiny lives, a world Seo-yeon felt as apart from as if she were a god in a marble temple.
Seo-yeon was motionless, her dark hair a stunning tangle over the linen. The bruises on her collarbone, a soft violet-and-yellow admission of the night before, were concealed under a slick of silk, a calculated drape that was both protection and reminder. She heard the muffled drum of the shower in the en suite, each splash of water and clank of the soap dish slicing time into bite-sized, deliberate pieces.
